"Couldn't I take mah Shanghai rooster?" begged the colored man. "He's a fine bird, an' maybe dem folks on Mars nebber seed a real rooster. I suah does hate to leab him behind."
"Oh, I guess you could take him," agreed Mr. Roumann.
"I'll gib him some ob my rations," promised Washington. "He eats jest laik white folks, dat Shanghai do. Golly! I'se glad I kin take him. I'll go out an' make a cage."
"What will you I do with the rest of your fowls, Wash?" asked Mark.
"Oh, a feller named Jim Johnson'll keep 'em fer me till we gits back. Jim's a cousin ob mine."
The next day was spent in jacking up the prow of the projectile so that it pointed in a slanting direction toward the sky.
"Am yo' aimin' it right at Mars?" asked the colored man, pausing in the work of making cage for his rooster.
"No; that isn't necessary," said Mr. Roumann. "Once it starts upward, I can steer it in any direction I choose. I can send it directly toward Mars."
"Hit's jest like a boat," observed Washington.
"That's it."